


Judas

by tigriswolf



Series: poetry [82]
Category: Christian Bible (New Testament), Christian Lore
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-08 02:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: Thirty pieces, for his soul.





	Judas

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 2005 - 2006?  
> Revised: June 4, 2019

Slowly, bit-by-bit, he counted the money, one coin at  
a time, dropping each through his trembling, traitor’s fingers.  
Each caught the light, shimmered white in the fire,  
the etchings highlighted, harsh and steel—All were there,  
all thirty pieces, and he hid them away, back  
in the calfskin bag, dark and soft; he tucked  
away the pouch in the folds of his robe,  
and he pulled a cloak over his shoulders, covering  
the shudders, hiding his body’s betrayal of this wrong.  
They jingled, the coins in the bag, they sang  
as he hurried to the garden. Shadows leapt for  
him as he led the guards to the feet  
of the King. Shadows sent from the Serpent laughed  
at him, this slave to silver. The King stood  
alone, in the center of His followers—and, the  
traitor wondered, what sort of followers were they, as  
they slept in this moment?—and he walked over.  
The guards waited, swords and knives jangling, and he  
strode to his King, coins singing, and pressed his  
lips to God’s cheek.  
  
                                 He recounted his money over  
and over, trying to feel anything but benumbed horror.  
Sudden riches deserved joy, a bright jubilation, not this  
weary loathing and hot tears. The King’s words had  
come to pass, everything foretold and the shadows sent  
by the Serpent tormented him, smirking at his bloody  
disloyalty, howling at the coins slipping through his fingers,  
clattering together on the dirt floor. The crowds outside  
screamed for the death of their beautiful, glorious King,  
echoing in his ears—  
  
                                  The rope was loose around  
his neck with a knot at the base of  
his throat; it threaded through the air to the  
trunk of the tree, tight as it could go.  
He threw down the bag, coins spilling out, begged  
forgiveness of the Lord Most High, confessing _, I have_  
_sinned, for I have betrayed innocent blood._ The Son  
of God was dead; for thirty coins He’d been  
betrayed.  
  
                 Wind blew the traitor’s dirty hair away from  
his face, giving him the last gentle caress; shadows  
crowded around him and he took a final look  
at the world, the closing glance—Hell beckoned him,  
with the Devil’s grin and bloodstained, gnashing fangs, with  
the carol of Satan’s own handmaidens—chanting, singing, howling  
_Thirty pieces, for your soul._  
_Thirty pieces, and they weren’t even gold._  
  


 


End file.
